Baptize
by Wastelocked-Stories
Summary: Cas/Dean gay slash, religious themes, Dean has a dirty nasty habit...


Dean has a nasty dirty habit. He's had it since he reached age nine and it cuts a deep rift of shame in his bloated ego - so he doesn't tell anyone. Not dad, not Bobby, not Sam. Not even Sam.

Normally, Dean's a shower kinda guy. Quick rinses to long and luxuriating. As long as the waters almost too hot to stand Dean enjoys it. There's no better way to wash away your sins, to fry your inner demons then to sweat it out of your pores and burn it from your skin. The only time Dean doesn't prefer a shower is when he's got an itch that can only be cleansed by that dirty habit.

Holy water baths. Yes, it sounds gay, and yes, Dean knows it probably doesn't do shit for soul, but Dean can't help it. Since he was a kid he was sneaking John's holy crosses, kneeling in front of a water filled tub, and muttering incantations in old Matalica tee-shirts and jeans that have seen better days. At first he'd just lower himself down in - clothes and all. Eventually he began stripping bare, something that hit around the same time his balls dropped and the porn channels at the motels became something of interest.

Somehow the holy water made him feel safe. He got the idea in his head that it would protect him, wash away the evil in his life and even now as a man, he still does it.

Knees hit the cheap linoleum floor, curled at the edges and cracked yellow. The water's steam has erased reflections from the mirror, and Dean's nothing but five o clock shadow and way past puberty. But his jeans have still seen better days and even though he's not wearing that Metallica tee-shirt, he still has the tapes in the car and knows the songs by heart.

His eyes are closed, hand thrust in to the elbow, an old silver cross clinking gently against the bottom of the tub. "Father, bless this water, and let it be a reminder for us of our baptism. Help us to live as people of the light, and to be blameless and worthy in your sight. All honor and praise be Yours, Father, through Christ our Lord and Saviour." Dean's eyes open, stare at the murky, wavering reflection of himself in the water. Before he can speak, before his lips can part to utter the last words of savior, an unmistakable _presence_ leaks into the room with a gentle force and firm confirmation.

"Amen." The voice says softly from behind him, and although Dean twitches, he doesn't bother to make any other moves. It's just annoyance that buzzes sharply through his blood and makes his jaw clench. The voice that says it too sounds so sincere, so _worthy_ of salvation and forgiveness.

"You know Dean," the voice continues, and Dean can hear the shift of heavy fabric, the clop of loafers on the floor. Dean assumes Castiel has seated himself on the toilet, though the lighting never changes, and no shadow falls. "Bathing in holy water won't help protect you if you are not already baptized. You are...baptized...aren't you Dean?" There's a fluttering note of inquiry, like genuine curiosity, and it pisses Dean off, because he knows Castiel could really give a damn. Still, he finds himself answering.

"No, dad never believed we needed something like that. Neither did mom. I think...I think they might have believed in the old man at some point or another but they'd both seen too much of hell to try and attempt faith in a God that never did crap for them." Dean said, surprised by his own bitterness. For a long moment Castiel is quiet, though it doesn't take a psychic to feel the sadness leaking like bad oil from the angel.

With a sigh, Castiel comes forward, slides hands up under Dean's shirt, soft fingertips grazing over ribs, dipping into the tender spot beneath arms. Dean's used to calloused, rough, nail bitten fingers. Fingers crusted under with dirt and seen too many bad days and bottles of beer. Castiel's, no matter how many times he's felt it, makes him shudder. Dean's really not in the mood either, pretty damn bitter that someone discovered his little secret, but he still lets Castiel rid him of his shirt and slide away button and zippers from his pants. The cross never leaves his hand, tangled and curled in his fingers, drifting lazily in the warm water.

"Let me help you Dean. Let me give you some of the protection you seek." The words are soft, just the barest edge of strained as Castiel manipulates Dean's body, helps him shift until his boots are off, socks tossed in a pile atop the shirt. He sits there bare chested and bare foot, toes cold on the plastic floor and knuckles white on the edge of the tub.


End file.
